Condiments

ketchup

ketchup

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I came back two weeks later, at 9:55pm.

“You’re early, Type One,” she said as soon as I walked through the door.

I sat at a table close to the counter and rested my head in my hands, unable to look at her.

I felt her sit across from me. A gentle tap on my arm confirmed it. “I don’t understand people,” I told her.

“People don’t understand you either.”

“But, people I thought I understood just proved I didn’t understand them.”

“What happened?” she asked.

I glanced at her. Those same vibrant eyes looked back at me. Her hair was free of the ponytail holder, now a swirling Afro that hung around her head like a cloud. I shouldn’t have looked at her. It was too painful to say, now.

“What happened,” she repeated, firmly.

“The other night, when I met you, I told my parents. They said awful things.”

“What awful things?”

“Awful things I can’t say.”

She was silent for a moment before asking, “Awful things about my race?”

I nodded my head. They were the reason I took so long to return. They didn’t forbid me from coming back, but I couldn’t face her. I was ashamed because I was a coward. I didn’t stop them to tell they were wrong. I just let them rant and when they stopped, I walked away. “I didn’t stand up for you,” I whispered.

“It looks like you’ve been eating better,” she said. She walked back to the counter and pulled out a loaf of wheat bread. “Are you hungry?”

I was confused. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Ever heard of forgiveness?”

I knew about forgiveness, but even I hadn’t forgiven my parents. How could she already forgive me?  “You forgive me that fast?” I asked.

“Why not? I know you were afraid. That’s the way you are. But, one day, you’ll change.”

My mind reeled as I watched her assemble my usual sub. I waited for her to add the mustard, but it never came. Instead, she pulled out a red bottle. Ketchup.

“No! You can’t put ketchup on a sub!” I exclaimed.

She giggled as she squirted the red sauce onto my sandwich, smothering the turkey with artificial tomato. “Have you tried it before?”

“No.”

“Then, shut up,” she said.

Mustard was a different thing. Its mild flavor complimented the slight fruitiness of the cucumbers and the smokiness of the turkey. Ketchup was meant for hot dogs and fries.

She plopped the plate down in front of me. My stomach roiled at the sight of it. I should’ve booked my hospital room in advance.

“Eat it,” she demanded.

“No.”

“Eat. It.”

“Never.”

“You were too scared to stand up to your parents, so you’re going to be brave and eat this sub,” she explained.

Then, I understood the purpose of the ketchup. Reluctantly, I lifted the sandwich to my mouth. The smell of cucumbers and ketchup mingling was enough to provoke my gag reflexes. But, I chose to ignore them and bit into it.

She watched me intently. “How is it?”

Indescribable, not in a pleasant way, but I decided to describe the ketchup.

“It’s sweet and tangy,” I said.

She smiled. “That’s what forgiveness tastes like.”